


Mind Flat

by Arctacuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arctacuda/pseuds/Arctacuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one with a Mind Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Flat

Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one with a Mind Palace.

The first time Sherlock told John about his Mind Palace, John laughed. A lot. Enough that Sherlock left the room in a huff while John was still gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes. But the more John learned about Sherlock's Mind Palace the more intrigued he became, and gradually, over time, John decided to build his own.

John's Mind Palace is a flat. Specifically, 221B. Sherlock would probably roll his eyes and call this _obvious_ , but it works for John.

The 221B in John's mind looks pretty much just like the one in real life. But here, items are attached to memories, and everything is just a little bit different. It's also much tidier than the real 221B, thanks to the fact that there is no Sherlock living in the space. It took John ages to get everything set up in a way he could easily navigate, but after about a year he feels it's all settled in quite nicely.

At first, John kept all his ex-girlfriends in the entryway closet. The memories of each one nestled cozily on the shelves, waiting to be sifted through on nostalgic nights. But at the rate John's been going through girlfriends lately, he fears he's going to have to move them to a bigger space. Possibly the attic. He blames Sherlock for that.

The kitchen is where he keeps challenges. Things he's had to overcome in life, things he still needs to work on. Puzzles and tests and difficult family relationships. Frustrating things that live behind the tea in the cupboards, amongst Sherlock's experiments on the table and the severed head in the fridge. The frustrations of his real kitchen inspired the decision. He blames Sherlock for that, too. 

John doesn't have a room in 221B for Afghanistan. He doesn't want it that close, doesn't want the sand getting into the worn carpets of his comfy living room. Doesn't want the death and despair creeping into a place so full of life. He keeps Afghanistan in a Mind Annex, which looks suspiciously like the bland temporary housing he'd stayed in before he met Sherlock. Grey walls for the greying memories. He doesn't go there much these days, except sometimes in his dreams. He thanks Sherlock for that.

And then there's Sherlock himself. In the beginning, everything about Sherlock stayed safely contained within the detective's own bedroom. Facts and figures, brilliant and hurtful words, shared giggles and long silences, all confined between four walls of a room John seldom ventured into in the real world. There's an entire drawer in this room devoted to the color of Sherlock's eyes, but he'd never admit it if anyone asked. Everything about Sherlock, nicely wrapped up in one room.

But then one day John went looking for a specific memory, the exact look on Sherlock's face when that woman at the Met had thought he was a prostitute. Whenever John needs a laugh he revisits that face in his Mind Flat, so he knows exactly where it lives: framed on the wall of Sherlock's bedroom, next to the image of Edgar Allan Poe. But on this day it wasn't there, nor was it under Sherlock's bed, on his desk or his shelves, or in his closet. It wasn't with the bat collection. It was nowhere. He wandered back out of the bedroom and eventually found it in the bathroom with Sherlock's hair products. Over the next weeks, more and more of Sherlock seemed to find its way into the rest of the flat. His odd, silent laugh relocated to the mantelpiece, under the skull. His exact reasoning for why John should never wear his Christmas jumper again lurked in the back of the fridge. 

Before John knew it, Sherlock had spread to every room in the flat. Except John's room. John drew a line there, an invisible wall of Stay Out, Sherlock, which is how things remained. Until Sherlock got himself shot. Oh, he was fine in the end. Sherlock had a way of surviving things he really shouldn't survive. But there was a week, one desperate, sleepless week with Sherlock in hospital, when John's Mind Flat fell into complete disarray. In his grief, all rooms became Sherlock rooms. Even his own.

Agitated, he'd gone into his Mind Flat to find a soothing memory of the summer he spent with his grandmother (located in the linen cupboard with Mrs. Hudson, his first primary school teacher, and all the best cups of tea he's ever had). When that didn't work, he wondered if he could just lie down in his Mind Flat bed and have a nap there, if not in the real world. But when he opened the door to his room, he was startled to find it already occupied. Curled up in his bed was a young boy he'd never known. He peered back at John from beneath the blankets, pale eyes frightened and bewildered, dark hair a tangle of curls. John recognized this boy. He'd seen him once in a photo found stuffed between the pages of a dusty book of botanical illustrations. Sherlock, aged 6.

Little Sherlock, vulnerable and innocent, terrified and tucked away in John's bed, was ill. His eyes were glassy, his cheeks pink with fever, eyebrows drawn together in pain, and his mouth set in a tight line of misery. Sherlock gave a pathetic little cough, and John's heart broke.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," he said, rushing over to the boy on the bed. "Everything's going to be fine."

Young Sherlock looked skeptical.

"You can trust me," said John. "I'm a doctor."

"An _army_ doctor," said Sherlock.

"Yes," answered John, smoothing Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. "And before you ask, it was Afghanistan."

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. "How did you know I was going to ask?"

"Because you're Sherlock," John said. "And I know I'm going to make you better because I'm John." He went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, stopped in the bathroom for a fever reducer, and returned to Sherlock's side. "Take these."

"Tell me about dissecting bodies," demanded Sherlock.

"After you take your pills and drink this glass of water." Sherlock did so, quickly, then looked at John expectantly. So John settled himself comfortably on the bed, and little Sherlock cuddled close, and John told him all about the first time he dissected a body, and how Stamford had vomited into a bin-- _amateur_ , Sherlock said--and about all the best squidgy bits inside a human body. Sherlock was delighted, so John kept going. He told him about the 27 bones of the human hand, about rare diseases of South America, and about a brilliant man he once met who could be anything he wanted but chose to solve crimes for the fun of it.

"I like him. I think I'd like to meet him one day," said Sherlock, and John laughed. "Now tell me about Afghanistan," said Sherlock, with a yawn and a cough. "Later," said John, settling further into the pillows and pulling Sherlock closer, "when you're better." And before Sherlock could argue he'd fallen asleep. John watched him for awhile, wondering at the child's presence in his Mind Flat. In his room. This was probably important, he knew, but before long he was drifting off himself, and that was the last thing he knew until he woke to the sound of his real-world mobile ringing on the real-world pillow next to his head. He sat up and glanced around, briefly confused not to be in his Mind Flat, before reaching for his phone. It was Lestrade, letting him know Sherlock was in the clear, and John felt he might cry with relief.

Later, when Sherlock was better and back in 221B, John told him about the first time he dissected a body, and how Stamford had vomited into a bin-- _amateur_ , Sherlock said. And he told him about Afghanistan. And hours later, when John had said all he could possibly say and his throat had gone croaky from talking, Sherlock got him a glass of water, and held him close, and brushed the hair from his forehead, and told him everything was going to be fine. And John believed him because he was John and Sherlock was Sherlock. And just maybe he wouldn't be needing a bigger room in his Mind Flat for ex-girlfriends after all.

He blames Sherlock for that.

**Author's Note:**

> I said I'd never write fic. Apparently I lied. Many thanks to earlgreytea68 and revwestwood who encouraged me to post this.


End file.
